Eggbug Writes

I know I've said my piece on quite a few nations by now, including a few that hardly show on most maps. I've written my share on individuals who can hardly be confirmed to exist, somewhere deep below. And I have, perhaps surprisingly, not told a great deal of stories about the more notable artifices within these caverns, much to the impatient chagrin of some, I'm sure. An admitted oversight on my part, when certain works outlive their makers and even take on a separate existence of their own, eclipsing their author in turn.

Isn't it proper, then, for today's little compendium to have all three and more?

In a slight departure, I won't be providing a straightforward compilation and translation as I usually do. The fragments are too small and lack the cohesion to weave anything coherent in a properly detached voice, I feel, and so you will be left with mine instead. I do try, especially with stories born entirely from one people, trying to take their perspective into account in order to weave the proper narrative from it, but the people involved here evade even me. Why, even bringing up the fact they exist will take many of you by surprise.

There's reasons for that, of course, one a fair bit more important than the rest. But I'll get to that in time.

Somewhat inconveniently, this all begins with one of the trickier sources one can have in the field: Witness accounts. Ever unreliable, for even the most cooperative sort that wishes to help will find themselves forgetting details that didn't seem crucial at the time, and patch over the holes in their own tale with inventions, not even realizing what they're making up. And that's not taking into account the simple, straightforward liars that make my work and that of others ever so difficult some days. But I digress; in cases like these one has to scrape the truth out of every source one comes across.

And what I came across in this case, as I tracked more common occurrences of Tower constructs acting against their (so-claimed) creators' bidding[1], were oddly recurring reports of a construct that hardly matched their usual blueprints at all. Tracking the elements that matched, the design in question seemed crude, improvised, and in some ways almost infantile. One point every witness agreed on was that the main body of this construct was a long slab of worked, detailed iron, leaking light and smoke with every movement. A baffling amount of them claimed said body was, in fact, a cast iron stove, of the sort found in grand kitchens that must feed a whole castle every day. The rest of the construct seemed to follow the "theme" from there, as per those witnesses that could remember any sort of detail: A multitude[2] of curved legs ending on flat-bottomed claws, a "tail" that was little more than a lock of chains coiled together into a single, waving mass ending in a bouquet of blunted hooks, and a long, articulated chimney that formed the "neck", ending in a head topped by a conical protection of the sort that stops rain and gravel from getting in.

While all agreed said protection acted almost like a hat, the head wearing said hat saw far less consensus about it. An elongated snout of some kind was the common thread, but where some described it as pointed, others called it rounded out and smooth—one helpful soul around the Sporedunes stated they “had no real nostrils”, presumably with some envy. Sometimes polished to the point of shining, and sometimes encrusted with far too much soot. And while there was consensus in that said snout could open widely, said consensus crumbled when it came to the teeth, as few could agree in their abundance and many reports did not even include them—whether it was because they were clouded in smoke or never there to begin with, I cannot say. But those who saw dentition always said it was sharp, and quite abundant, to the point at least two unfortunate fellows who got too close for comfort wondered how they fit in the first place. Triangular or needle-like, however, they could not say.

As to eyes, their reports were split. While several of them assured this construct simply had no eyes of any kind, most of them agreed they were there, right underneath the cone’s brim, and they were a fiery, outright luminous orange-red. But they were evenly split on whether they were a series of perfectly parallel, vertical lines, or if they were two large, perfectly rounded “windows” into the inside of its head. Perhaps one of these is but a visor.

Now, as a pause, I’m sure you’re trying to picture this entity in your minds right about now. And some of you might start seeing why I used the word “infantile” earlier: Improvised and perhaps kludged, yet so obviously reptilian in a crudely threatening way that couldn’t have been other than intentional, and that might be almost adorable to some minds’ eyes. Like a faux-menacing toy some would sculpt for their child somewhere in the Hollow-Lands, or perhaps Mycon’s Valley, all such places where river reptiles roam freely. The abundant legs and long neck would either be necessity, or a manner of artistic license in the same vein, by then[3]. Rest assured, this is something I see just as you do. But there may be a reason for that as well.

Now, one valuable thing about eyewitness reports, one of the few solid facts they can provide, is the location. Even the best historians can neglect this when writing down what they know, even if they saw it with their own eyes, but an eyewitness knows almost exactly where they were. And with location, comes triangulation. With the right questions, I could lay all these reports across my desk upon a proper map, and from there, learn of the places where I should start looking, if I wished to find older stories, older witnesses, and perhaps even the protagonist of these reports…

Predictably, yet still much to my chagrin, all of these tended towards the Northern reaches of the caverns, towards the outer edges of alleged Tower territory. Joy of joys[4].

Now, it’s a common misconception that any town under Tower territory must, by nature, be thoroughly subjected to their usual inflexible rulings, as it’s fairly easy to assume their attempts at “unification” have finally succeeded in any place where their flag flies. Thankfully, this isn’t quite so, especially at the contested edges where most of these reports took place. Even further inside in lands unquestionably under their control one can find hold-outs in hiding, provided that they let you find them[5].

And it was here that I found (much) older, more consistent, though sparser stories. Ones that offered an actual name for this entity, in fact! Among other details, of course. And here, from Ifchi-watched rivers to tunnels ran by Ferigozi, they had a Common name for him: Auld Stovepipe. I’m still looking into the etymology of the first word, but I believe it to be some manner of corruption from an old Clan[6] term for “venerable”. Fittingly enough, for the (admittedly squalid) dating I could perform on the tales and linguistics involved would indicate this figure has existed for at least four hundred years, with eight centuries being my personal estimate.

Nevertheless, these tales have far more overlap between them, even if they have similar issues keeping appearances straight. They start giving the outline of this entity as an actual individual, with unclear goals but a perceivable personality. Actual diction, even! They paint the picture of someone who conducts himself with all the noble, if stuffy gravitas of a knight of the older Ferigozi traditions, those who don’t even prospect. Often those that still have some lingering threads from the times before they took refuge in the Subterraneum. Why, he even has the vocabulary… the oddly antiquated vocabulary in every single language these stories were in. With correct usage, across all five local languages I could find his quotes in. In Common, however, which doesn’t quite have the history of any other, it appears he makes do by twisting diction and even individual words to make them sound older. As if closer to an older etymology that doesn’t actually exist. This clearly points at an image he’s deliberately trying to cultivate, to the point of slight absurdity.

Going by his acts, however, this appears to be no mere facade. I could discern a code of sorts behind his appearances and interventions, even if his goals still seem murky to me. Any interventions he makes seem to be in favor of the weakest group in a given clash, but there is a certain weight towards Tower constructs. A certain bias in trying to keep them functional, even when directly confronting them. But such confrontations only happen when they are obeying Tower directives—in fact, whenever said constructs were disobeying said directives, Stovepipe almost always intervened in favor of them[7].

Still, even against flesh and blood he avoided lethal force where possible, though tended towards destructive and highly showy assaults against infrastructure and materiel. In fact, I would say reducing vehicles and even buildings to little more than heaps of magma was but another objective: More than once did he empty out a fortification without casualties only to melt it down before everyone’s watching eyes, and in practically every tale every weapon that was laid before him on surrender was melted into a slagheap on the spot. Even firearms, in fact, no matter how much shrapnel he had to endure from ammo detonations. Of course, when you’re cast iron, such things are more of an annoyance than a risk…

Yes, I speak casually of slag and even magma, because such is the heat Stovepipe can seemingly deliver when pressed, it’s been witnessed even outside Tower-claimed territories. Usually his “breath” appears to be thick with smoke, from a healthy grey-white to a near-toxic pitch black depending on undetermined factors (though I theorize his momentary moods may influence that), but it can become a torrent of flame in moments, as if driven by bellows within his structure. And this torrent can turn steel white hot in a second, that appears to be the most common measure. Softening and even melting rocky structures takes dedicated effort, but it’s not impossible for him to do so, going by those reports where he decided to bring down a fortification in the most exemplar way possible.

His capabilities, however, didn’t seem to stop there. In several tales, his smoke preceded him, leading me to believe he somehow chokes his own flames to create an occluding blanket in order to make his entrances more impactful, both practically and dramatically. A few among these, those which call his body an actual stove, mention the “doors” of his body swinging wide and opening the blazing furnace within, whether it was to simply vent the heat directly, or actively launch so-called “burning coals” far more destructive than any piece of charcoal or even anthracite should be[8]. And his tail appears to be prehensile and quite dangerous indeed, whether used to hook and launch any opposition that’s gotten too close, or to reach into his own compartments somehow and dust the earth they stand on with strangely toxic ashes—never quite lethal, but always incapacitating. All in all, quite the arsenal, in spite of it being bound to these unusual limitations.

Yet as I delved deeper into it all, re-reading all I had and comparing it side to side, and looking into places and names mentioned within, I started to see certain common details, certain overlaps, that led me to believe there was more to this Auld Stovepipe than mere over-engineering and skilled manufacture could allow. To be precise, the torrents of flame from his mouth appear capable of far more than merely heating and burning, especially in those older stories where the leftover effects could actually be observed.

For example, I am almost entirely certain it was he that burned Fort Faltercross to the ground back when it was under Tower control. The dates line up, as does the description of the melted, magma-filled crater at the very heart of it, and it seems perfectly within his capabilities. Yet the ruins of Fort Faltercross has a greater claim to fame than the fortress ever did while it stood: All those in the area know of its “curse”, that no structure has ever been able to stand where it once did, as if the very earth beneath it had lost its integrity, its capacity to hold brick upon brick. As if, perhaps, it had been seared away.

This was not the only such case, either, as could be seen with the walls of Marcantes Castle, half of the dam at Nushirrif river, and many more fortifications, projects and even simple dwellings throughout the Tower-held North; each and every one lost something in his attack, and the destruction left had a way of “sticking” through time. Even one case where a lucky shot from an ember he spat out during a retreat burned a hole in the third engine of the Forever Onwards, a Paladin-class aerial cruiser the Tower fielded to rout him out of a holding. From leaked maintenance documents I could get a hold of, no matter how many times the third engine was fixed or replaced, it never worked properly ever again. Something far beyond the material was being incinerated in each case.

Yet it hardly stopped there. One case that stood out to me in particular was the confrontation with Zifaldar, the Red-Eyed Haunt[9]. It seems like another indication of how much of a threat he was, somehow surviving a full blast of Auld Stovepipe’s flames and seemingly driving him off without any truly crippling injuries. But let me remind you: Before and after his betrayal, he was noted as sharp and jovial in a standoffish, even hostile way. Highly energetic, in ways either abrasive or actively intimidating. Always vying for the public eye, too, whether with acts of supposed heroism or active atrocities. And yet, after said confrontation, he utterly disappeared from most records, hardly making history after that. He became reclusive, hiding away in the Tinrotted Plains until he died. Those who could even find him noted he was far more sullen, quiet, even hollow-eyed. Didn’t want attention, didn’t want to show off, he didn’t want much of anything anymore. All he kept saying was that he was “tired”…

As if the flames, in some metaphorical way, had burned him out.

By now, I’m sure the more well-read or well-wandered of my readers will have noticed a very familiar pattern. An element, reaching beyond the merely physical. Pushing its properties, what it’s known to do, into the realm of the abstract, of the intangible and outright conceptual, all guided by a strong enough will. What happens when the Radiance that surrounds us all is tapped into just enough to crack open the barriers of the impossible, to allow an element to run its course in ways outside any common framework.

The Spark. The Spark of Blazes, to be specific, or the First Spark if you’re a traditionalist[10]. Fire and flame, burning and smelting and even refining the immaterial (much as I’ve found no examples of the last one, yet).

And of course, right after that, said readers (especially the aforementioned traditionalists) would then doubt their own conclusions, because Auld Stovepipe isn’t alive. There is hardly any doubt as to him being a thinking, feeling individual—though if they exist, I suggest you cast them to the side for a moment—but he has no blood, no brain, no heart. He’s a being utterly divorced from any kind of biology, very much unlike every other practitioner of a Spark of any kind. Even an art as hostile to most scientific frameworks as the Sparks often are still has its own rules, and in this case, the most important rule of all is that they cannot be recreated artificially. No machinery, no instruments, it has to be someone carrying it out.

I was just as baffled as you likely are, and in many ways, I remain so. All one can do is theorize as to how this construct managed to either cheat this rule, or simply stick to it and show us all just how little we understood. What makes this one so special than he can bring the Spark to bear? Could any construct do it, in theory, and he’s simply the only one that’s both learned it and made a grand enough impact with it for history to notice? Or is he truly unique in that regard, with something key to his composition and own history that allows it to manifest?

To search for the answers, one must delve deeper. Into those reports that are neither neatly-written documents or the words of a yet-alive eyewitness. One must search for rumors, personal stories, and in this case, tales that are closer to oral tradition than anything else, distanced from the origin with each retelling. Where each connection is uncharted territory. Yes, this part of the assignment is far closer to trying to document the Lords Below than usual, but documenting and penning their contrasting natures is something I’ve done before, making this far easier than it’d be for most.

And so I delved, roaming the edges of the Tower’s territory once more, listening to the elders of each town from East to West and listening to those tales they had no real origin for, other than as something their own elders would narrate to them in turn. I got lucky, once or twice, and found some of the more long-lived sorts that had several generations to their name, and got their own stories where I could. I compiled, cross-referenced, and grounded all I could, to sift through what was left for something that could come close to the creation of Auld Stovepipe… And one tale, one that predated all but the very oldest and was spread through the oldest, most isolated settlements, emerged. Piecing it together from each version for completeness’ sake, the “full” version goes as follows.

Long ago, in a frontier keep with little in the way of a town to protect, there lived a girl[11]. The daughter of the local blacksmith, a man who took pride in his work, and often boasted his own creations would outlive him thrice over, if not more. The details on what he actually made are scarce, but by all accounts, he was very fond of cast iron in particular. Something about its enduring, unyielding solidity called to him, one presumes; it definitely called to his daughter, who had a joy of watching the heated metal be poured into its mold, and slowly settle into something that she knew would last for ages on end. Why, he’d shown her examples of things he’d made before she was alive, before he’d met her mother, before he had even left his own parents’ home. It was all still there. Stained, perhaps, with marks of inevitable corrosion, but perfectly usable—and as he said, he’d only gotten better since then…

And indeed, she’d inherited his interest in such things, and his skill as well, as she’d later show. But one thing she had that her father didn’t was a bright imagination. Youth played a part, of course, but she had a certain talent as well, an interest in going beyond what she’d seen, in experimenting a little more. She wondered what else could be done, what shapes beyond the molds her father had forged could be done. She dreamed of moving parts, too, of actual mechanisms of sturdy, solid metal working together to make a greater, moving whole, a functional… something, as unyielding as father’s anvils yet mobile, perhaps even agile, for lack of a better word. Sturdy joints could push themselves much further, after all, or so she thought at least…

She kept getting new ideas, too, and with each creation her father showed her, more ideas sprung from them. Of how such simple yet reliable works could form part of a greater whole if joined right, once she was good enough to figure out how. From simple tools lying around to the arms and armaments that often left the forge to keep food on their plates, she wondered, what could it all make, if put together? Most of all, the household’s grand stove, one they kept after someone quite important had flaked on an order[12], had often lit a fire in her imagination, as its sheer bulk, stout legs and the flames it could maintain when properly fed made her think of it as a driving body, the core of something greater. A heart that no bullet could pierce, powering a grand and glorious mechanism—what kind, she didn’t know, but she’d find out.

But her father kept telling her: One day, when this is all yours, you can do as you like with it. But not today, when we all need it. On quieter days, he’d pore over the designs she’d drawn, offering suggestions and just admiring how creative his daughter was, but always with the reminder that they’d have to wait until he had no more need of his creations. Instead, he’d feed the flames of her creativity with practice pieces, those he’d use to fire up the forge and use up the metals he didn’t find up to par. All of these were hers from the moment they left his anvil, so she could practice herself, and build her skills, and perhaps, he thought, think of new things, and stop obsessing over what he thought were mere appliances… but if she didn’t, he could at least be sure she’d be ready for the time he’d pass it all on.

That time would come far sooner than they’d all wish.

One day, orders started showing up at the smith’s doorstep, with little in the way of names or elaboration, just the items demanded, a deadline and the payment. They were more numbers than words, as basic and blunt as a letter could be. And instead of a signature, each of these had an unusual seal he’d never seen before: A tall, squared shield with crenelations at the top like a tower would have. In the middle, it had a pointed black shape with yellow flames, like a burning arrowhead[13].

Yet crass as this was, an order was an order, and payment was payment; thus, the smith took to fulfilling these at first, just in case, even if there were no names or addresses involved that he could deliver to. Perhaps these mysterious sorts would show up at last once the deadlines were over, and he could wash his hands off the matter.

And they did, very suddenly and very quietly. Indistinct people covered head to toe in soot-black armor would arrive, and take them off his hands, lifting even cast iron furniture like nothing. Before he could even mention payment, it would be thrust into his hands, with further orders and further deadlines buried in the coinage he’d just been so rudely given. And then they would simply depart, leaving him and his family with a handful of gold and an armful of work orders—a greater pile than he’d gotten when this all began.

As he fulfilled those in turn, the silent people would come again, take his works and plop a growing pile of gold and demands onto his table. And as the payments grew, so did their demands, but not their deadlines. He’d find far more on his plate each time, with a growing list to finish in exactly the same time, in exchange for payment that, while greater, matched the back-breaking workload less and less for each cycle. But a job was a job, payment was payment, and he took pride in his own work and ability, so he fulfilled them each time. It’s not like he knew how to turn down someone that never spoke, and hardly ever showed up. Or so he kept telling himself, as more and more of his waking hours were taken by these mysterious orders…

Until one day, the threshold was finally crossed. He found the work excessive, the offered payment an affront in comparison, and simply let the deadline lapse, focusing on different orders from people he could actually talk to, negotiate with, people who would actually thank him.

He would not live long enough to regret it.

When the daughter woke up, she found the forge had been cleanly and quietly ransacked. All that her father had recently made, all he’d cast and forged instead of these anonymous demands, was entirely gone. Most of his newest tools, his current anvil, the crucible, even personal belongings made by his own hand, all gone as well. And the smith himself had disappeared, with no trace but a great splash of blood where he had slept. Only the oldest things he’d made remained, those that were even older than she was: A battered anvil, the first and crudest set of tools, a broken forge, and the stove in their kitchen. That was all she had left. And just like he’d said, just as she’d hoped before, and now dreaded to think… now that he was gone, it was all hers.

What else was left but for her to get to work?

With nothing left but memory, dreams and the toil ahead, the daughter fetched the oldest of tools and began putting together what she’d envisioned. Her tools were subpar, and her materials far from ideal, but she would made up for it with persistence, growing skill, and most of all a will of harder iron than any she would ever cast. She had a goal now, and all the once-vague ideas she’d had, all those idle thoughts of moving parts and joints, could be anchored to it. All the “what ifs” that had brewed in her mind throughout the years finally had a purpose, a North. As she sat in the kitchen, staring at the stove while its final embers cooled and died out, she finally pieced together what she was about to do.

At this point, the stories become quite vague about the toils that followed. There are specifics, of course, in that she labored without sleep for a long, long time, throwing herself into her work so deeply it essentially consumed her, and in one form or another she didn’t survive the ordeal. But the nature of this consumption is one where the various versions of the tale don’t entirely agree. For example, the Vez-leaning versions say she simply fell from sheer burnout, spending her every reserve until she died with her. But those closer to the Kingdom lean towards constant, unending work cut short only by a lethal accident that spilled her blood deep into her work, blood that soaked in and never came off. And Voska appears to believe the most likely outcome was her literally giving her all, as if her very soul came off to reside in this first and final work… The common thread being, all of her vitality[14] ended up invested in this creation, one way or another.

And what a creation it was—here being where the lines converge once more. She’d used all the old components and tools she had until they were part of the work, or utterly spent, emptying out the workshop and her own home completely. She had no wrath nor sorrow nor old joys left, channeling it all into this creation, giving it the fires of her vengeance, the strength of a guardian, and the voice and will a child would wish of a parent. It was a childish shape she’d forged, a metal beast with sharp teeth and abundant legs better fit for a toy rather than a war machine, yet the fury that fed its creation ensured it would be deadlier than anything the Tower had fielded before (and most things fielded since)…

And most of all, she’d made something awake, a being with a thinking, unbound mind to guide its actions.

Perhaps she knew she wouldn’t be able to do it herself, not for long, or perhaps it wasn’t even part of the intent at first, and only came to pass absentmindedly, subconsciously. Or, perhaps, she recognized that the being she was about to bring to life, even a being born out iron and vengeance, should be able to choose whether it wanted to follow said path or not. But whatever her reason may have been, all agree that her grand and terrible artifice awoke to see her pass away, her last words known only to itself… or rather, himself.

And the rest, of course, is history. The tales all end more or less the same, with the daughter’s creation promising to fulfill her last wishes and setting out to avenge everyone that once occupied the forge that birthed him, to take down those who signed with the burning seal and sent those faceless soldiers to enforce contracts none could refuse; they never specify what, exactly, he did once he hit the roads. I don’t have enough access to Tower records or specific dates that could confirm if Auld Stovepipe’s particular vendetta with the Sage behind the events was carried out, but whether it was or not hardly matters at this point if he’s been rampaging against all of them this long. If he’s even partly responsible for the current uptick in rogue constructs, be it converting them to the rogue cause or just keeping them safe, then he’s clearly paying it all back with interest; from my understanding the Tower already refers to him as “Subject BACKDRAFT”, the kind of treatment they reserve for uniquely threatening individuals[15].

Thus (allegedly) goes the tale of Auld Stovepipe, the Northern Flame. A tale started ages ago, and one that’s far from finished. All that remains is the rare treat of witnessing history being forged, hands on, by a single individual. I, of course, will take my role in writing it all down as it comes, but I’ll admit I will be watching with especially close interest, hoping that perhaps one day I will get to meet this particular automaton myself. And if a copy of this manuscript were to fall in his possession, well, I’d like to tell you one thing: Keep the flames alive.

Yours Truthfully,
The Ever-Restless Nirrhamidh

[1] "More common" is hardly saying much, in all honesty. Even if they're becoming more frequent, cases of battle constructs turning against Tower orders are still something the common citizen of the caverns will never see.
[2] The precise number was impossible for me to ascertain, as not one of the witnesses that offered an actual number agreed with any other. The barest minimum (which didn't seem to match the sizes involved) was six, while one particularly hysterical report claimed seeing over two dozen. If I had to offer a half-blind guess, I would go with either eight or ten.
[3]One note before moving on is that the end result, the vaguely reptilian beast some of you may be imagining right about now, has an uncanny resemblance to certain seemingly-mythical creatures whose depictions are common in pre-Refuge art among the Troxi, and have persevered into their culture (albeit with an array of interpretations as to what they are or represent). I keep it as a mere footnote because the individual in question unquestionably predates their arrival into the caverns and the Nixian Age as a whole, so such resemblance is merely a spectacular coincidence.
[4] If this is the first time you are reading anything I’ve written, I will outline this in the most diplomatic way I can manage: “The Custody” and I have profound disagreements, to the point they find my general existence to be an affront, and I find their general existence as a political entity to be a tragedy at best.
[5] I recommend not attempting it, even if you’re up to date with all I’ve written. They have enough unwanted attention as is. I only found them because they know my name well. And even then, they requested a few favors on my end.
[6] Clan Sofize to be exact.
[7] I could only find one exception, in which the confronted construct appears to have decided to follow Tower orders in a destructively subversive way. Ordered to clear ground for a road, they gathered enough explosives to clear ground, ceiling, and at least half of a nearby town, seemingly just for the sake of antagonism. And even then the melted husk of said construct was delivered to the town instead.
[8]In terms of both heat and impact, in fact. In most of these cases melted puddles were observed in those places where the coals settled down, whether they laid on stone or iron, and they were often thrown with near-lethal force all by themselves. Some select stories even spoke of Stovepipe somehow hiding entire cannons in his body to grapeshot these “coals” with, which feels absurd, yet wouldn’t be entirely out of place for him as far as I known.
[9]One of the more prominent figures of the fifth Gilded Raid, undone from within before it could begin thanks to rampant treachery, a quick lesson for all the involved on the Tower’s more underhanded methods and the perils of leaving victory in the hands of the highest bidder as the Vezarym did. Zifaldar was just known as “Red-Eyes” back then, right before turning his coat and becoming thrice the menace he ever was as a regular Consortium mercenary—for a time.
[10]I am aware of the near-offensive irony of referring to those who turn the shattering of boundaries and rules into a way of life (if not outright dogma) as followers of a tradition, but, by the same principle that ensures one and minus one are on the same axis, it still very much counts as one. Apologies.
[11]I am almost completely (but not 100%) certain that they were Ferigozi, from the descriptions of the place in those versions that bothered to on the surroundings. The architecture described, and the general surroundings, very much sound the part; I would dare say one could narrow this whole story down to somewhere Northwest of the Red Plateau, in the old Tower frontier before the Kingdom and Consortium managed to push that line back.
[12]Who exactly this individual was remains unknown to me; their existence is only mentioned in a handful of fragments, and these only refer to them by position. A couple use the Vezarym word for “oligarch”, a few fragments either call them a duke (in Common or Ferigozi), one I found in Empire territory called them a scion (without specifying), and one particularly fanciful version assured this was the same “Prince of the Red Mountain” that shows up in fairy tales in both Voska and Ferigoz, which is probably a parental embellishment.
[13]Throughout all versions, this part remains clear. Anyone familiar with the Tower’s Vaults would recognize this image as the seal of the Sage of Coals. Which one in particular, I couldn’t assure you, but I have two relatively solid possibilities which may narrow down the era this tale is from. For what it’s worth, I’m very sure the current one wouldn’t bother with excuses like these.
[14]A common thread worth noting, as our nature as dwellers and citizens in the Subterraneum leads to our very existence and vitality being deeply infused with the Radiance that makes Sparks possible, to the point of concentrating it. This is most often noted when the Third Spark, or Vim, comes into play, and you have someone (most likely Bannerbound) growing entire limbs and innards of their choosing, but it’s in every last one of us. Those that explore Exits for a living and regularly confront their dwellers will readily tell you of its impact. Whether it was this vitality itself, or merely the intense Radiance, that made sure Stovepipe could wield the Spark, I don’t yet know, and it falls too far outside my purview for me to be comfortable offering a guess.
[15]Before you all ask, no, I don’t believe I have one such title myself, and if I do, they’ve done a remarkable job in keeping it away from me.